


Ghost on the Shore

by gruhukens



Category: Dark Matter - Michelle Paver
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everybody Lives, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, exceedingly british love confessions, gratuitous snuggling, gus is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gruhukens/pseuds/gruhukens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Gus doesn't die, and Jack doesn't grieve, and the only ghosts they ever have to deal with again are the ones they bring home with them from Gruhuken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost on the Shore

**Author's Note:**

> if you were emotionally destroyed by the ending of dark matter and you know it clap your hands! (ʘ‿ʘ✿)
> 
> this fic could also be known as ‘gratuituous handwaving: let’s just pretend gus is totally alive and snugglin’ with jack okay’
> 
>  **warnings** for low mood and possible ptsd but also warnings for happy endings y e a h
> 
> this is also posted on tumblr

Gus keeps a firm hand on Jack’s forearm all the way back to Eriksson’s ship.

At any other time –  _any_ other, thinks Jack wistfully, feeling the weave of Gus’ shirt chafe roughly against his skin – this would be a cause for celebration. But right now, Gus is shaking hard enough to rock the boat in tiny, minute movements, and his grip is tight enough that Jack can see the white strain of his knuckles in the pale moonlight, and all it does is to serve as a reminder of what they’d all almost lost tonight.

Jack’s own clothes are fucking sodden and his mouth tastes like salt and death. His mind is wandering in light, airy circles, and he’s entirely sure once he comes back to himself he’s going to break everything he can lay his hands on. Isaak is curled around his feet, motionless. The sealers and Eriksson are grim and silent, eyes cast down towards their oars, looking up only to Eriksson’s ship waiting further off in the bay. Gus cowers next to him: Jack’s carefully not looking at him, but he can feel how tense and small Gus is and it  _hurts._

Gus is, in essence, boyish, enthusiastic, endlessly upbeat. Brave.  _Vital_. Jack’s not looking at him, but he can feel the terror and helplessness rolling off Gus in waves, and he knows how that feels. And it’s horrible, because Gus - beautiful, brave Gus - has been his constant from the first day at Gruhuken, and Gus breaking means they’re both falling apart.

But he’s not looking at Gus, not acknowledging Gus, because if he looks at Gus, that will mean everything that happened - the cabin burning, the figure in the boat, Gus almost drowning - all of it will be real.

But it’s ridiculous, really, and it’s bringing tears to his eyes just thinking about it, because ignoring things is what lost the dogs, and crippled the expedition, and almost killed Gus, and that’s on him. And now Gus is falling apart right next to him - Gus, who has given everything for this expedition, and for Jack, without even knowing it. And what’s worse, Jack  _knows_ what he needs - the same thing Jack needed for all those weeks trapped in the cabin, and it’s something so small and so easy. Just a little warmth. A little human connection. 

 _It’s time to stop denying things,_ Jack thinks softly, and covers Gus’ fingers with his own.

* * *

Gus stumbles through Jack’s cabin door one night. It’s pitch black - clouds overhead are blocking out the sliver of moon, and Jack’s lamp has been off for hours. There’s a clutch of momentary terror as Jack wakes in the darkness and the sounds of the sea and the  _feeling_ of a figure  _just there,_  until Gus’ soft voice threads through the night.

 _Jack,_   _old man,_ he says, and Jack can hear the tremble, clear as day.  _Jack, I -_

 _I know_ , Jack says blindly into the darkness, and he can hear Gus stumbling towards him, the creak of the bed as Gus sits down on the very edge. Jack reaches out a careful hand, finds the square of Gus’ bowed back, and presses gently in.

 _Do you not feel it?_ Gus breathes, sometime later, still curled over his knees.  _You were there - you were - it was in the cabin, it was burning - you -_

He breaks off. Jack stares in the approximate direction of the ceiling, and tries to ground himself in Gus’ steady warmth beside him.

 _I feel it,_ he admits, and steadfastly ignores the way his voice cracks, until he can’t anymore, because he can’t anymore, because he can’t rationalise this away like he can everything else - like he  _could_  everything else, before. This side of Gruhuken, things are never so clear, no matter how much he tries.  _I feel it all the time, Gus, and I can’t_ -  _Gus -_

His breath hitches in the dark, and he can’t breathe, and the darkness is everywhere. There are tears on his face, and he wipes them away, and they just keep coming, and for the first time he wonders if he wouldn’t rather have died, than be left to deal with the ghosts of Gruhuken.

This time, it’s Gus’ hand which snakes over the covers to find his.

They fall asleep like that, hand in hand, Gus lent sideways against the headboard, feet on the ground and hand curled uncomfortably behind him, and Jack curled up on the mattress. Gus sneaks out in the morning with a sheepish smile and Jack rests his head on the closing door, certain that he has messed everything up, but then Gus turns up just after sundown, slipping through the door with a sheepish smile, and Jack realises that things are only just beginning.

It becomes something of a routine for Gus to steal into his cabin a little after sunset, a routine Jack quickly finds himself becoming dependent on. It’s not that he even has nightmares, really, or anything else logically requiring another person’s presence, and he can’t say for sure that Gus does either. Most days he can’t stand being so dependent on someone else - he hates himself for reducing Gus to this, for being so needy, so weak, when it’s his fault that Gus almost died out at Gruhuken. 

But there’s just something about that human connection - firstly about just having someone else in the room when the darkness is so all-consuming, so tangible, and then about half-waking every now and then with one of Gus’ hands tangled in his hair, and then about his head cradled in the crook of Gus’ shoulder, Gus’ free arm hooked over his shoulder, hand splayed out warm and large over his stomach - it’s not something he’s ever experienced so deeply before, and it’s addictive. Overwhelming. 

The daytime is a new creature, one wholly separate from the night: Gus is always gone with the sun, smoothing down the covers and shutting the door like he was never even there. But soon enough, Jack learns to read Gus even when the sun is up - how to smooth the worried lines in his forehead during the day with a joke or an observation, when to offer gentle distraction from the looming cliffs everpresent in the distance. And so, too, Gus seems to learn a little about him - walking him determinedly past gossiping sailors, stilling hands he didn’t even know were shaking, defusing his anger with soft, quiet apologies when Jack’s temper quickens.

And as the days pass and they approach Longyearbyen, the lines between day and night blur more and more. Gus will walk with a gentle hand at Jack’s elbow. Jack will helplessly drop a hand to Gus’ shoulder as he passes. Gus will sit shoulder to foot with Jack, a long warm line at his side, and hook their ankles together. It’s intoxicating, and Jack should be worried about just how little control he still retains over his actions and his common sense. But he doesn’t.

One day, close to the end of their journey, Jack wakes up to find one of Gus’ shirts draped pointedly over the little wooden chair at the foot of his bed. When he finds Gus later, standing beside the rail, he spreads his arms a little, letting the shirt fabric billow a little, and raises his eyebrows. Gus’ eyes are soft and his answering smile is wide, almost helpless.

 _Oh_ , Jack thinks, arms falling a little and,  _oh_.

* * *

Gus confesses his love in a London cab. He twists his cap in his hands and uses the phrase ‘old boy’ at least twice. Jack laughs until he cries. 

* * *

Ten years on, and Jack sits in the Caribbean, feeling the sand between his toes. There’s an old, fat husky at his side, and a book swinging from his fingertips, and his face is tight.

 _I didn’t know you keep a journal_ , says Gus, plopping down at his side, and the lines of his forehead are furrowed.

Jack looks up, fingers gripping the book tight. He tilts his head and asks,  _Do you ever still think about it?_

Gus stills. The bay quietens. Jack  _knows_  Gus knows what he means.

All _the time,_ Gus says after a moment, and his hand closes over Jack’s on the spine of the book. _  
_

 _I found it. I don’t know what to do with it,_ says Jack.

Gus hesitates.  _Do you trust me?_

Jack nods. Gus slips the journal from between his loosening fingers, stands up, and hurls it far into the bay. The book arcs over the gleaming water for a moment or two, no more, and then disappears beneath the bay.

Jack smiles.

 _Come on_ , says Gus, and takes Jack’s hand.  _Let’s go home._


End file.
